


uh-oh, there it goes, i said too much, it overflowed

by r1ker



Category: Star Wars Original Trilogy
Genre: Eating Disorders, M/M, self-punishment
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-01
Updated: 2016-01-07
Packaged: 2018-05-10 22:30:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5603308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/r1ker/pseuds/r1ker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>luke takes training one step too far.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> i cannot say enough to warn those suffering from an ed against the content in this, if you are still sensitive to certain aspects of it, i warn you to not continue
> 
> i have suffered from one all my life, more now than ever, and took it upon myself to write it into a fic as some sort of closure idk
> 
> there's been fics writing luke as having an ed and i took inspiration from those as i wrote this so
> 
> title from soap by melanie martinez

It begins on a weekend.

 

They’re supposed to be relaxing, the _Falcon_ having been docked in some out-of-the-way planet that promised much-needed relief. Luke does everything he can to take the edge off of his frayed nerves, sleeping as long as he possibly could (that only meant about seven hours, four more than he was averaging a few days earlier) and getting up to Han making breakfast.

 

His friend stands at the hot plate they use for a stove, flipping something in a pan and whistling hoarsely. Every once in a while he shakes something over the contents cooking away in front of him and the sweet smell that comes from it lingers around Luke’s nose. It almost knocks him over with just how indulgent he is and he is gripped by strong hunger. Although, it’s different this day.

 

As he’s standing at the kitchen table, sleep shirt rucked up around his belly; he lets two fingers gather the gentle but minute give of the flesh beneath his belly button. Something in him sounds off an alarm that’s not urgent, but warning. That wasn’t there a few months ago when he first began his training. He’s never had a good deal of body fat, a consequence of a childhood spent cutting corners on a farm that never seemed to turn a big profit, but now it’s strange to have it.

 

Not five seconds after his realization does he realize he hates it.

 

Han spots him standing by the table and waves in his direction with the spatula in his hand. Luke is still starry-eyed by his previous encounter with a change in his body and doesn’t initially respond to Han’s friendly gesture.

 

“Hey, kid, good morning,” Han greets while turning back to the stove. A soft click and the heat’s turned off, warmed cinnamon toast scooped out and put into a mildly chipped floral plate. The dish is put into the center of the table and Han now works on putting the finishing touches on the breakfast he’s made for his little unit.

 

Juice and milk are retrieved from the icebox, forks and plates rummaged out deep from the nooks and crannies of the various cabinets. Once they’re all set up nice and pretty on the table, Han steps back to examine his handiwork. “There. Not too bad a spread, huh?”

 

Luke, again, is still rendered speechless, and not for the reason Han would assume. His pulse still drums away heavy in his ears, eclipsing any words he could ever think to hear right now, and he takes two small steps away from the table. “I’m going to pass.” He wants to retract his words instantly when he sees Han’s face fall a little. “I’m – I’m not hungry.”

 

Han recovers smoothly from Luke’s statements and puts two of the pieces of toast on their own plate, covers them with a dishtowel. “No sweat, I’ll put them aside if you want them later, yeah?” Joining the plate is a cup of juice with a coaster beneath it, the two placed neatly on the counter behind the table to wait for Luke.

 

Luke nods like he’ll ever come back to those tokens of his friend’s kindness, and he tries not to go back to his bedroom in a dead run. He falls back onto his bed and hurries to turn out the light. In the darkness he starts running over measurements in his head of his suits, knowing they haven’t failed in giving him the same fit with each passing day, they’re not getting tighter, his brain is playing a really bad trick on him, but his mind still isn’t settled.

 

That having been determined, he starts to construct a plan.

 

The next day begins with delving into exercise. He’s up before the other two living with him, outside in the cool morning to run. For it being his first time to run more than a mile without stopping he does pretty well, decides to make it two then three when he’s not quite out of stamina yet to stop. Three makes his heart race in a really cool way so he’s on the verge of collapsing when he finally settles on five. Knees burning from the center out in radiating waves, chest heaving, he determines that this feels good. _Let’s do it again tomorrow_.

 

Tomorrow turns into everyday. Up earlier means never sleeping more than three hours a night, just the appropriate amount to give his batteries enough charge to make it through the grueling run. After he’s back at the ship and standing in the washroom fully naked, he hops on an old-fashioned scale left abandoned in the corner. From what he was doing compulsively the week before in hopping on the weight every single morning without fail, the numbers are changing. They’re going down. And so is the heightening panic.

 

When he has to give in, grant his body fuel after running it on fumes for several days, he’s not unlike a bird. Leia sneaks his plate away from him when he’s not looking to spoon more of whatever they’re eating for breakfast, lunch, or dinner onto it. Luke’s fork challenges it, scrapes it to the far corners of the dish and takes enough to fit one prong to his mouth and consequently his system. Most of the time it’s definitely not enough, leaves his belly aching for more, crying out for him to just give in for once and grant it more. Much like an irritated parent he ignores it, ignores it efficiently.

 

As the numbers fall, the days and weeks slip away to this rigorous routine, so does his number of wearable clothes. In months past he could sneak Han’s clothes from his wardrobe, wear a pair of pants with one of Han’s shirts fitting him loosely enough to be very comfortable. That same shirt falls off of him now, slumping off of his shoulders even as he stops every few minutes to readjust it on his body. He’s borderline proud of the way his ribs stand out as he catches himself in the mirror when changing to get ready for bed.

 

He puts two fingers back on his stomach. It’s failing to fit in that little spot now.

 

One morning his feet are pounding the earth in that heavy way they do when he’s at a dead run, and he starts to feel woozy. His head feels like someone’s snuck in to exchange his brain matter for loose, fluffy cotton. His throat is swallowing bile back down when it threatens to come back up as he sprints. There’s a small part of his brain – probably that impulse control he’s had a lack thereof for a while – telling him to _stop_ , _go get water_ , _take a break_ , _you need your rest_.

 

Luke tamps it back down, goes into his reserve power to pick up the pace he was losing there for a second while he was dwelling on his failing body. Acid builds in his muscles and he cries out with the ache that spirals through his calves. It’s enough to get him to slow down into a stagger. Another starburst of pain and he’s on his knees. No cushioning on his legs makes his sitting position even more agonizing than the muscle cramp.

 

He’d cry with how bad it feels, not easing up no matter how much he massages the muscle with his shaking hand. Tears do well up in his eyes, which is surprising given how little water he’s been taking in over the last few days. When he blinks to block out the sun beaming over him they slip down his cheeks, catch on dry parts of skin lacking in moisture that’s not sweat. His stomach gives a strong lurch then he’s leaning over in the grass, heaving up bile that burns his nose and his throat. A cough and it’s over as soon as it’s begun.

 

Luke thinks that now that that’s out of his system, he can resume. Not quite; standing up makes the sky go topsy-turvy, everything surrounding him going hazy at the edges as his brain starts to close up shop a few hours too early. His body lies prostrate on the ground for several minutes, thoughts on a loop but ideas nonsensical. It’s almost a chore to blink his eyes, try to gain some visual sense of what’s happening to him. Again he turns his head to retch into the dirt and grass around him and heaves up nothing but that sickening acid and saliva.

 

Behind him, a good distance to make it almost seem like a mirage rather than a reality is the distressed cry of a Wookiee, then another yelp for assistance. Luke tries to sit up, tell Chewie he’s just taking break, but as soon as he’s got his hands behind him to start propping himself up they fall, slide back against the ground. The dirt runs up his arms and stains his trembling body with mud and grime.

 

He doesn’t remember much after that. Something he’ll never remember is Han’s hands going over him quickly, assessing for damage alongside frantic eyes and breathing labored by panic, and soon Han’s arms cradling him on their way back to the _Falcon_. Leia demanding answers to questions Luke couldn’t respond to in his current state. The two settle on fitful shifts at Luke’s bedside, doing what they can to resolve this wrong with what they only had for a resource – patience, time.

 

Luke wakes up several hours later feeling even stranger than he did when he passed out. He is clean, mouth even freed from that sour taste it had in it before. Soft clothes that still don’t fit him, slide off around him in puddles of fabric, are covering his body. He’s warmer than he’s been in days, lack of body fat causing him to suffer in constant chill. Just when he’s thinking about sitting up and putting his shoes back on to complete the run he began and failed to finish properly, a light comes on in the hallway and soon Han is standing in the doorway.

 

“Listen,” Luke rasps out soon with alarm with how disembodied his voice sounds to his own ears. Weariness is within it and he wishes for all the world he didn’t sound this way, didn’t let Han worry about him when he really didn’t have a need to. He clears his throat when it starts to cry out for water.

 

“You get out that bed without my say-so and I’ll shove you right back down onto it,” Han states ominously and Luke falls back onto his pillow without another word. This is a way Han’s never sounded to him before even if he screws up on their day-to-day managing the _Falcon_. It’s concerned, sure, but also furious.

 

This happened on my watch, Luke will always tell himself, but Han feels guilt for not having seen this sooner. He saw Luke’s runs as a need to run off energy that no doubt gathered if they lied sedentary on the ship for far too long compared to how they used to be in the past.

 

He didn’t know they were working to destroy him.

 

Hesitating, Luke sits back up in the bed and Han takes a couple of steps closer to the bed. Just the way he walks tells Luke numbers on how he’s feeling, heavy, thudding steps showing clear intent in his previous promise. “I mean it, kid. You’re weak enough now to where it wouldn’t take too much to keep you right there until I can make this right.”

 

“Make what right?” Luke asks as if he’s been gone from his body over the course of this whole situation. Han scoffs and snatches one of Luke’s hands into his, gripping all too tight to keep the prominent bones in any sort of ease or comfort. Luke winces in response and Han makes a noise of _I told you so_.

 

“I’m letting Chewie take over the helm, and we’re getting you back to base,” Han begins with Luke’s hand still in his crushing grip. The hold could be concerned, angered, worried, any combination of the three that Luke can’t quite discern right now, with his brain still a little foggy. “I’ve got a good friend of mine waiting on you. He’ll get this all settled, get you eating something. You’ll rest, you’ll not put on those goddamned running shoes, and you will fix this.” Luke’s breathing picks up.

 

Fix what? Fix the perfect state he thinks he’s rendered his body in, just pushing a little harder than many others would do? He scoffs and lets one of his hands, the one not being held tightly against Han’s, pass over his face. His eyes are growing heavy and for a second he thinks it’s because he’s still tired. No, not quite, and tears start to crowd up in his eyes.

 

He’s embarrassed enough to let the hand still rest on his face even as he cries, letting the tears run down and soak the metal against his skin. Han notices and plucks it away from his face, lets his thumb catch the teardrops as they flee down Luke’s cheeks.

 

“Don’t scare me like that, huh?” Han starts to soothe, abandoning completely his indignation at Luke’s self-destruction. “Don’t scare me. I’m too young to die from that sort of thing just yet.”

 

“I don’t know what to do,” isn’t quite what Luke was wanting to say to that, but it’s true. He’s at a complete loss for words, a lack of a plan, a clear end in sight. All he wants is to not gain back what he never wanted in the first place but on the current path that is inevitable. He cries just a little more, lets his whimpers taper off into something he doesn’t think is too pathetic, and stops.

 

“I do, Leia does too,” Han corrects and scoots over to sit next to Luke properly on the bed. His presence at Luke’s side is more comfort now than the running ever seemed to be. “We’re going to get you better. Can’t be a Jedi if you’re falling over starving every two seconds. Imagine that, keeling over in battle because you’ve let this shit crawl into every corner of your being.” Again his hand finds Luke’s and holds it for reassurance. “You can do it much better, you know. To where it won’t feel like it’s going to kill you every time you get up in the morning.”

 

“What?” Luke asks with a sincere air of confusion. He’d never considered it at all in the past that taking care of your body wasn’t literal and violent, because that’s all he had ever seen growing up. He had gone walking around their area of Tatooine more times than he cared to count, seen people training for military schools with grueling training plans and strict eating guidelines. Everyone else in his life maintained an air of fitness that he thought was just earned by doing that very same thing, punishing and punishing until your body had no choice but to obey.

 

He was wrong and it pains him to admit it. Up until now he’d been doing everything right, got himself right where he needed to be to get to that higher level of feeling like a real champion, worthy of calling himself a Jedi, until he just couldn’t stop anymore.

 

“You don’t have to kill yourself to better yourself,” Han reiterates. “Do it slow. Make little changes. Let yourself get used to it. That’s why we’re getting you away from here. I’m sure of it.” Luke nods and hopes this is the solution, hopes that what Han is promising on the base is the answer to this urging question of self-improvement. After all, he’s got very, very little to lose as of now.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> luke tries to get better. really, he's been trying for years, but it's different this time. everything's so, so different.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i was asked to complete this story following some good feedback on the first chapter so here we go
> 
> i'm going to reiterate again, this one's a little more heavy on the details and if you're still alarmed by what comprises what i've composed as luke's ed, i ask that you do not read
> 
> thank you for reading and i appreciate every single comment, kudos, bookmark, et cetera
> 
> this has really been a therapeutic piece to write
> 
> (ps. thank u webmd for some medical-ly terms that show up in here)

So, as luck would have it, he does get better.

 

It starts out slow as all things improving in this world do, pinpointing the margin Luke needs to be at weight-wise for his height. At the start he’s about thirty pounds underweight – Luke feels Leia’s hand tighten around his when she hears the number – and stresses to whichever of the doctors present that will listen that he wants to gain it for good, and not with anything bad.

 

They listen and start him on soft foods, emphasizing that an overload of heavy albeit healthy foods to his system could do a lot more harm than good. The first thing Luke tastes that’s not split into tiny pieces is applesauce – no sugar added, of course, he had given the label a thorough examination before allowing the plastic spoon in his hand to even graze the surface.

 

Leia is by his side as he painstakingly eats the entire small cup of it, getting stopped up every now and then by the sensation of eating something entirely rather than stopping halfway through claiming false satisfaction. A few spoonfuls do leave him gagging with the richness of the apple’s taste as it explodes on the back of his tongue. Still, he perseveres and finishes it entirely, even going as far as to scrape the tip of the spoon against the sides to take away the last few bits of it.

 

She’s positively beaming as she stands to dispose of the cup and the spoon. Luke feels terrible for having her worried all this time; he could feel it when he woke up and as he went to bed at night, a constant sense of unease settling in the Force and lingering at every turn. Now the lines in her face have softened a little, eyes missing the storm that once brewed behind them at the thought of watching her brother suffer at his own hands.

 

“Feel better?” she asks him as she sits back down in the chair that’s been hers for more than one night. Once they had brought him in, it’d had been a long process of getting Luke the fluids his body had been deprived of for much too long.

 

At first it was hard to get a vein brought to the surface to even begin the process, the medical droid prodding for more than ten minutes at the yellowing surface of Luke’s arm, until finally it gave and allowed a needle. Han stood behind the droid the entire time waiting on it to be done, thankful that Luke was unconscious long enough to not see the scowl on Han’s face at the sight of him in pain.

 

“Yeah, just tired,” Luke answers. He still is, right down to the bone; no amount of sugar free applesauce could relieve his body of the ache of exhaustion. In the past few days he’s slept more than he has in months but it still isn’t enough. Leia stands over him as she kisses the top of his head, a parting gesture to let him go back to sleep.

 

“Go to sleep, close your eyes,” she whispers right above his ear. He doesn’t know where he’d be without his sister and her voice that seems to promise better things that he knows wouldn’t be possible without her constancy in his life. He knows a love for her that would overpower his desire to go back to what he was before. At least, he hopes it will.

 

“I’ll let you rest and I’ll be back later, hm?” He nods, knowing she’d never be absent from his side for no good reason. The door closes softly behind her as she leaves him and Luke lets his eyes drift shut for not the first time today, and lies back. Sleep crawls into his bones and blissfully it doesn’t take long to be completely, completely out.

 

When he wakes again it’s dark. Although his stomach does not growl with hunger like it would have previously, someone is spotted padding down the hall with a closed tray in their hands. Luke can’t see who it is for the curtain and blinds covering the one solitary window in his room.

 

Wielding dinner is Han, dressed now in a soft sweater and dark pants, opening the door to Luke’s room with great care. The tray balances carefully in his other hand and when he spots Luke blinking awake on the bed, his chest depresses with a sigh of relief.

 

“Hey,” he greets, a word so soft Luke has to strain his ears to hear. There’s something about his tone that’s almost exhausted, worn around the edges by nights spent worrying rather than sleeping. Again Luke feels the same pang of guilt in allowing the both of them to take this so seriously. He never meant to have them worried sick about what he thought he was doing right for himself.

 

“Got you dinner. The docs slung something together that wouldn’t irritate your system too much. It doesn’t smell half bad.” With that he takes the tray’s lid off to reveal a modest dinner, more than breakfast, which was almost too much for Luke to handle. Like Han said it isn’t awfully composed food at all. It looks mostly healthy, devoid of any sort of grease or toppings that could mean bad news.

 

The food isn’t bad looking at all for the rations available on a medical base, prepared meat and stewed vegetables that give off a smell that curls around them. Still Luke’s stomach roils at the thoughts of getting it all down but he tries to power through it as the tray is set before him on the stand on the night table. Han produces the rest of the dinner’s accessories, silverware and a bottle of juice sized for children, and steps back once everything is in front of Luke.

 

“Alright, ready to roll,” Han says finally as he sits in the chair by Luke’s bed. His brow furrows when Luke doesn’t initially go for the food and drink. Waiting a few more seconds to see what Luke’s got planned for it, not at all surprised when he sees tears start to sting at the corners of Luke’s eyes for reasons unknown. “You’re good, take your time. I’m not racing you, alright?” Luke nods with a swallow and sits back on his bed, trying for the entire world to get the smell of the food out of his nose and failing miserably. Each time he gulps the saliva runs bitter down his throat to a loudly complaining stomach.

 

“Can I eat it later?” Luke feels himself falling back into his old ways, but really his question is sincere. He’s not all that up to eating, still as full as one can be after subsisting off of a cup of applesauce to do nothing but catch up on sleep. Determination comes over Han’s face as he shakes his head in answer to Luke’s inquiry. This is entirely not conducive for the plan he’s already set in place to get Luke back 100% again. He feels like they’re starting at negative twelve and they’ve got to get to three without very little fuss. And this is fuss.

 

“No, pal, you got to get it down so those doctors will stop yapping at me,” Han explains fairly. Truth be told they haven’t stopped pestering Han to go in and wake Luke up with promises of food, packs of crackers and things in strange aluminum packets they were calling supplements to start mending the calorie gap Luke widened all too much himself. Han refused, couldn’t stand to go in and deny Luke the ability to sleep without worrying about stuffing his face when he was in no capacity to go back full force just yet.

 

Luke’s hands are shaking when they come up to his face in an attempt to stop hot tears from running down. He doesn’t know why he’s getting so upset about this – it’s not a lot of food, arranged in a neat and small circle in the center of the plate in portions obviously meant for someone terribly ill who can’t stomach a lot at all – but he can’t stop.

 

Han pulls the tray back just enough to where he can get closer to Luke, yanking a few tissues out of the box on the nightstand to hand to him. The tissues come back balled up by Luke’s trembling fingers and damp with his tears. Ever patient, Han tosses them into the trash and lets his hand rest on Luke’s shoulder. When Luke doesn’t respond to him with what he’s thinking is wrong with this situation, Han decides to cut to the chase.

 

“What are you thinking about this, huh?” Han asks him and Luke shakes his head in a lie. He can’t let Han know what he really feels about eating more in one sitting than he has in weeks; it makes him feel like he’s reneging. Going back on all he’s done to fix an error that wouldn’t have been made if he had just done more to hide it, correct it with just trying _harder_.

 

Han persists when Luke is still silent following him asking the question. As softly as he can he lets his thumb brush against Luke’s cheek, driving away tears with the touch, even when he turns away from Han in embarrassment. Luke looks defiantly at the climate outside, chill of night frosting over the glass giving him nothing in response but a reflection of his own weary, deteriorated looks.

 

He nearly doesn’t recognize himself, face bearing a structure more obvious than it was earlier in his life. He is almost terrified of the shape his mouth takes as it curls into frustration, anger that Han’s not listening to what he has to say, that he’s not hungry, he’s fine. He’s not fine, of course, but he could manage if Han would just leave it be.

 

“I was telling you I’m not hungry,” Luke maintains in a tone of voice that means otherwise. He’s using it as an excuse – _Jedi don’t make excuses, but I’m not a Jedi just yet_ – and he’s so surprised Han isn’t getting as passionate about it like he was before. As he is anticipating Han shakes his head like Luke once did and sticks the fork on the tray in the center of the food, bringing it back over to them.

 

“Yeah, you are,” Han corrects. He’s more insistent about it and adjusts his feet where he stands to not go anywhere until Luke’s eating and without that pallid look on his face he’s been carrying around for far too long. “You’ll eat it and feel better, trust me. They wouldn’t give you anything that wasn’t in your best intentions.” Luke nods, giving in and taking the handle of the fork between his first three fingers once again. A few more seconds pass and Han lets out a slow sigh. “You have to put in your mouth for your body to digest it, scooter.” Luke nods and takes a series of small, experimental bites.

 

He slows down once he sees that Han’s satisfied and sitting back down in his seat. After that it goes off without a hitch and once the bottom of the plate is in sight it’s almost as if he can feel Han relax again. The taste of dinner is sour on the back of his tongue, however, and his stomach roils dangerously. If he were more intoned to the responses of his body he’d say he would throw it back up just as soon as it’s forced down but he maintains. It takes a few seconds to stop it from creeping back up his throat but soon there’s a jolt, a sudden urge to find the nearest toilet, and he’s all but flying out of the bed.

 

The adjoining bathroom’s door is slammed open and Luke falls to his knees before the toilet, retching hard enough to have Han flinching where he still sits in the bedroom. Nothing comes up though and he doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry. What does come from his mouth is blood after a few seconds of coughing hard enough to leave his chest aching.

 

Borderline disappointed, he rests his head on his forearm when the last few bits of his strength leave him in a slump on the bathroom floor. After precious minutes pass he finds the ability to stand again and staggers back to the bed. Han’s over him instantly, pushing forward the bottle of juice as a sign to try and clear his mouth of the taste bound to be stuck to the back of his tongue. Tentatively Luke takes a few sips of it and pulls the blanket back over his legs.

 

“Luke, you got to take it easy,” Han almost pleads in response to what’s just happened. He’s not wrong in the slightest, knows that his recovery can’t be set back this early in the game. Luke looks at him and with a simple look, agrees with him. Seeking contrition for what his body has done he takes a few long sips of the juice, sweetness cloying in his mouth. “They were telling me your heart rate was low when we got you here. Like, not good at all. 40, 50 beats a minute, they kept saying it was something called bradycardia.”

 

Han sighs and lets that hand on Luke’s shoulder turn into a forearm across his back promising comfort. His arm startles when it feels more bone than it’s used to but remains on Luke’s shoulders. “That happens when you don’t eat. Your heart goes, ‘oh, holy shit, we’re not getting in any food, guys’ and down the heart rate goes. When the heart rate goes so does the breathing – you sounded like a wounded fucking bantha when I put you down on that table.”

 

Han wraps him in a pretty powerful hug, lets his chin rest on the top of Luke’s head. The touch is what Luke needs to do away with the jitteriness still wanting to hide in his muscles. Han clears his throat and squeezes just a little bit tighter. “I love you with all my heart; I’d do anything for you. Tell me to jump and I’ll ask how high. I’m not going to tell you to do this for me, you gotta do it for yourself, yeah?” For what feels like the hundredth time in the last twenty minutes he lets his head go up and down to agree with him. And he’s right. It’s time.

 

Han steps out of the room long enough to go find Luke a second bottle of juice and come back with it in his hand, opening the lid so Luke can take a sip. Then they spend a few minutes in peaceful silence, the droids coming in to clean up the light mess in the bathroom and the dishes from dinner. Han can’t help the way he sits next to Luke on the bed with his hand in his hair, stroking absentmindedly for mostly his comfort.

 

This was something he could have been denied had Luke not let them know of his illness with his collapse. This could have all been taken away from him forever, and now more than ever, he realizes he can’t let that happen. While the battle isn’t over yet – there’s nothing in Han telling him Luke can be cured in just one night – he knows that it can be won, along with the war. They’ll just have to have all the right tools to fight it.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a setback and a triumph seem to always come hand in hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I WASN'T DONE YET here is another chapter i've been working on
> 
> warnings as per usual for some sensitive content
> 
> again thank you for your kind responses, kudos, bookmarks, everything

Now Luke finds he has the tools but not the means.

 

He sleeps, a good deal more than he should. Sometimes it’s sixteen, even seventeen hours he goes without moving from his bed. His stomach aches with hunger and as he’s been told so many times in the last few weeks, he should go and ease it. Ease it with the prepared meals set aside for him and only him in the icebox all three of them share. They’re little things, aggregations of proteins and carbs and fats that are meant to build him back up after he spent so long destroying himself.

 

He can’t. He can’t find the strength to do it anymore. A little thing in him tells him it’s not worth his time. Not worth his time to get up and unbox food his body so desperately needs to thrive. He thinks about how disappointed Han was in him in those earlier days. _Han’s getting frustrated with you,_ the little thing informs one day when the hunger grows to be almost too much to bear. _I bet he can’t believe you’re still doing this to yourself after all he went through for you. The dissatisfaction has got to be unbearable._

Luke gulps like The Thing can see and feel everything he’s doing. He knows it’s right. Pulling up his shirt, he can tell now that the weight is coming back. That little bit on his stomach has returned like an old friend he wanted nothing to do with in the first place. He sighs in defeat, knowing it was bound to happen soon. He knows he hasn’t been running in two weeks and his legs itch with the urge to get back out there again and get it all back off.

 

Then Luke remembers someone else in his life – Leia. Leia, who went through so much for him, sat by his side for nights she didn’t have to but did out of a love between them that ran deep. Part of him knows that’s devotion he’d never know. He can’t imagine that kind of struggle and sticking with it day in and day out in hopes that it’d get better. But still she remained and continues to remain in his life, checking on him early in the morning and just before he returned to sleep at night.

 

She comes in his room just as the urge to stand up and scream reaches a fever pitch. Her hair is plaited back from her face in a braid that runs down her back, loose strands framing her familiar features. Smiling at him, she dials the overhead light up to a dim beam so she can see.

 

“Morning, sleepy peep,” she says and he nods in recognition, rubs one hand over his eye. He moves over on the bed to allow her a space to sit. Even after being in the room for less than a minute, Leia knows something is wrong. She can feel it in the air and most obviously, the way Luke holds himself as he sits next to her on the bed. “What’s going on?”

 

Luke shakes his head and stands up, works on getting dressed. Since he’s figured out that they’re at no odds with each other on personal space, he takes off his shirt while rummaging for a fresh one. He can feel Leia’s gaze on his back, the protruding ridge of spine and bumps of ribs stretched over thin, tan skin. Not wasting time he tugs a new one on and lets it fall down nearly to his knees as he changes underclothes and pants.

 

“How’s it going?” she asks as she stretches out across the foot of the bed. He shrugs his shoulders, a little motion that makes her wince as again bone comes to the surface to press against skin much too obviously. Like she can tell without him saying a word, she beckons him closer when he finishes dressing.

 

Luke sits down on the edge of the bed to slip on his socks, his boots. Leia’s hands are at his shoulders and touching lightly, her chin resting on his shoulder. The dam in his mind is developing spider cracks along its already frail foundation. So much is going on in his brain, a whirlwind of thoughts ranging from _get your running shoes on and get at it_ to _if she offers you breakfast you know to refuse it, right?_

She backs up to let him stand again, watches him scrutinize his appearance in the floor to ceiling mirror tucked away in the corner of his room. He turns from side to side, pulls his pants down a little by his hip to see the protrusion of bone. It’s still there, thank God, and maybe that is the last little thread of hope he’s holding onto to make himself think he hasn’t completely succumbed to it yet.

 

“I was going to make breakfast for us today,” Leia begins and Luke’s heart seizes a little. Not this again, he thinks fleetingly. It was hard enough to have that with Han be the beginning of this whole thing and now it’s looking like he’s going to be going down that same slope today. At least now he knows to wear gloves and protective gear, that being his techniques of exercising and restricting.

 

Leia, however, has a different plan. She doesn’t look to be approaching this with caution, rather a relaxed sort of confidence that seems to have room for error should it occur. “You can have whatever you’d like. Anything your little heart thinks of, I’ll whip it together for you.”

 

He can’t think of anything that sounds good to his body. His body wants nothing inside it, nothing but maybe a glass of water and a supplement the medical base doctor prescribed to him during that first hospital visit. He’s found now that water is very filling, soothes the ache a little. Maybe to make her happy he’d allow himself a scrambled egg white, a handful of fruit from the basket on the kitchen table.

 

Then that’d just sour his stomach and make the ache come back. Really he’s at a loss for words and pauses a little too long after her having asked the question for her to start getting suspicious. He sighs and lets the gesture imply that he’s too tired for breakfast, might be better to sleep through it and catch up later. Leia doesn’t budge.

 

She walks over to him and takes his hand in hers. “I know you’ve got something you like for breakfast floating around in your head. Come on, say the word.” He makes a conscious decision to allow him one day, just one day to give into her, ignore The Thing.

 

“Waffles,” he mumbles and watches her face gain a spreading smile. She nods and pulls him next to her and starts the walk into the kitchen. The Thing returns with a vengeance when they do start making the waffles; he’s counting the calories of everything that gets tossed into the mix – the flour (that’s not so much), the oil and eggs (cholesterol and fats, you’re getting on up there), and the kicker being the sugar (don’t do it).

 

Leia plates up the first waffles exclusively for Luke, stacking one on top of the other with butter in between to serve as glue. She pours syrup on top, tucks blueberries into the holes of the waffle on top, and sticks a fork in them to finish. Turning back to Luke she holds them up, presenting them, and he breaks right then and there. It’s so much, all at once, and he feels the breath leave his lungs in a rush.

 

His face cracks a little and embarrassed tears rise to his eyes as he accepts the plate. He misses not having this, being able to eat things without the heavy emotional consequences that plague him after. Leia sees him losing it and pulls the plate gently from his hands, sets it behind her on the table, and wraps her arms around him.

 

“Oh, Luke,” she sighs into his hair, touching the finer parts of him he only knows as his enemies, them being his back and sides. He wants to cry but can’t find the strength to close his eyes and let them fall. The smell of breakfast is still in his nose, reminding him of what he had agreed to previously but could not follow through on. “You’re okay, it’s okay.”

 

She lets go of him and puts the waffles back on the counter by the stove, out of sight, out of mind. The two then go into the sitting room just a short distance away from the kitchen. He’s still trembling when he lets his hands rest on his knees as he sits down. Leia sits by his side for the next few minutes, one hand rubbing circles on to his back lightly.

 

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs after several minutes trying to catch his breath and compose himself. His stomach growls at him, aggravated he again could not follow through on the promise of fuel. Swallowing seems to lessen the blow and soon the grumbling fades. His thumb catches tears that continue to fall despite the panic subsiding. “I thought I could do it.”

 

She makes a noise that’s a sigh tinged with disappointment. While she’ll never know what her brother is going through, will never know the compulsion that’s set up shop in his head, she knows what it’s like to be let down by yourself. A self that is not how it should be seems to let someone down a lot, and Luke is no different.

 

“You’re still healing,” she offers truthfully. “There’s still time, and you shouldn’t rush it.” He nods and the two go back into the kitchen. Leia eats her breakfast while Luke sips a glass of water. He’s feeling happy it fills him in a way food really should. For the rest of the day, he doesn’t fret about it.

 

Until dinner. And it goes to hell, really, really fast.

 

The three sit around the table, delving into dish upon dish of things to eat, and like a perverse placeholder, a small mound of food is on Luke’s plate. Like clockwork he ignores it and continues listening to the rousing conversation taking place between his sister and Han. Han’s watching him out of the corner of his eye, taking note in the way the fork lies stationary to the food it ought to be helping into Luke’s body.

 

“You’ve got to be hungry after all Leia’s telling me you’ve done today,” Han mentions and Luke nods in affirmation. After all he’s not wrong; Luke took several hours in seeing to the maintenance of his newly acquired X wing, cleaning it inside and out and even taking the time to check the internal oil gauges for issues.

 

“Yeah,” he mumbles, picking up the fork and shoving around a spirally piece of pasta. The way it curls around the prongs, giving way in some places and oozing in others, makes his throat constrict. To think that he could eat that, digest it and actually have it help his body, makes him ill. “Not as bad as I thought it was going to be, finished up earlier than I thought. I’m going to bed early tonight that’s for sure.”

 

He’s entirely honest about that past part. After dinner he’d prefer lying on his bed until sleep carried him off but telling how Han’s looking at him in that peculiar way he was doing weeks earlier when this whole thing started, that’s not likely tonight. Living together for so long makes them intoned to when something is wrong with someone, and Luke, after all that’s happened, sees that as both a blessing and a curse.

 

“Don’t forget to eat before you go to bed,” Han reminds him like he’s done a thousand times since that first accident. Luke just blinks at him, tries to keep his cool when his body’s telling him to leave and not look back. He’s finally starting to recover from the nightmare breakfast nearly became. “You’re up doing more now, it’s only right to give your body a little more. As you’re out there riptearing around the ship you’re burning energy faster than you’re taking it in now.”

 

Luke’s heard that logic a thousand times before and he knows it, knows it better than anything. He almost keeled over once when he was particularly active in picking up around the cockpit; fortunately he caught himself on a guardrail and after a few treacherous seconds of breathing in deep and letting it out in a controlled hiss, he regained his ground.

 

That tremor that he was feeling earlier returns and his hand rocks gently against the table where he’s gripping the edge. Han’s hand settles over his to hold it steady. Then Han takes the fork, tears away at the pile of vegetables on Luke’s plate, loads up the utensil and places its handle in the curve of Luke’s hand.

 

“Look, healthy,” Han points out, directed towards the food. “Go for it, tiger. I can hear your stomach yelling from over here.” Luke can’t find it in himself to say no to that face, a look of pleading and demanding that’s formed in response to the heavy burden of watching Luke waste away.

 

And, for whatever reason, feeling the guilt subsiding just enough, he takes a step, a bite. For once in perhaps forever, he doesn’t feel upset about it anymore. While this isn’t to say the next one won’t paralyze him with fear, it’s good to know that there are some that give him relief.


End file.
